From JFK to Charles de Gaulle
by le-ouiaboo
Summary: America/fem!France: Exchange student Alfred F. Jones wants to woo a French waitress named Marianne Bonnefoy, enlisting the help of Google along the way. De-anon from the kink meme.
1. Did you mean cafes near the Louvre?

"_Study abroad Paris France"_

Alfred clicked on the first link that Google returned and skimmed through the webpage, laughing to himself at the parenthetical asides liberally scattered throughout the text. The program's candid honesty about life as an American student in Paris reassured him. Not that he was nervous about living on his own in a strange country, but he might have had a few trepidations about the rumored lack of hamburgers on the menus…

He saved the url to his bookmarks, then spent the next hour clicking on link after link, reading up on the extensive curriculum, the example itinerary for the spring semester, losing himself in a virtual tour of Paris and Nice and Cote d'Azur, until he finally glanced at the time and realized he was going to be late for class. Stuffing his phone into his messenger bag, Alfred grabbed a hoodie and sprinted off to the art building, getting there a few seconds before the bell-tower tolled the hour.

* * *

><p>After much deliberation over his best pieces - black and white versus color photography, the animation short he had been working on, various sketches and designs accumulated over the last two years - Alfred finally submitted his portfolio to the foreign exchange program director. He spent the next three weeks anxiously awaiting the results of the selection committee, checking his mailbox every day. On the day that the acceptance letter arrived, congratulating him on his excellent portfolio and satisfactory grades, he jumped and whooped all around the student union, fist-bumping anyone who would fist bump him back.<p>

As soon as he calmed down, Alfred called his brother to tell him the news.

"Wait a second, you actually got accepted into the study abroad program?" Matthew exclaimed, sounding horrified.

"Was there ever a doubt? I told you they couldn't resist my work."

"Al, I thought you were joking! I never thought you were going to actually apply! What did Dad say about this? You've told him, right?"

"Sure did!" Alfred replied cheerfully, and added, "Well, you know how he is, he swore for almost five minutes, told me Paris was full of degenerate thieves and whores who refuse to speak a proper language, and then vowed to disown me the moment I landed in France. But Mattie, I'm going overseas for a semester! Studying film and eating real French fries and drinking alcohol! It's going to be awesome!"

Matthew made a strangled noise of agreement and, after Alfred hung up, he promptly called their father. He was certain that Alfred knew exactly how much their father loathed anything to do with France, an unfortunate but not unexpected result of years of "gentle" British breeding, so he must have done this just to piss him off. It was the sort of thing Alfred would do, and yet he had hoped his brother would have gotten this crazy idea out of his head by now.

As the self-appointed family peacemaker, Matthew tried to convince their father that there were numerous advantages to studying abroad, and Alfred would be gaining valuable, marketable experience in a cosmopolitan city like Paris.

There was an exasperated fatherly sigh from Mr. Jones' end of the line. "I suppose I won't disown him then. But if something happens to him while he is living in that immoral city, I do not think I can live with myself, knowing I allowed him to go."

"Alfred will be fine, Dad," Matthew reassured him, politely not mentioning the fact that New York City, where they both were attending school, also did not lack for immorality. "He won't be alone. You… just have to trust he will do the right thing."

They considered that for a minute, knowing Alfred and his headstrong ways, then awkwardly said goodbye. It was not until the next day that Matthew realized their father never once called him by name, but by then he didn't care because it just hit him that his brother was going to Paris without knowing any French.

"Relax, Mattie, I'm going with other students from America, and the classes are all taught in English. Uhh, well, mostly in English."

"But what are you going to do when you're not in class? What if you get lost or injured or mugged and need to communicate? Did you think about that?"

"Quit worrying, you're starting to sound like the old man."

"Look, you could always practice with me, Al, you know I'm minoring in French."

"Thanks for the offer, Mattie, but I bought this phrasebook to practice, I'll be set." Never mind that he was still on chapter one, but he figured he still had plenty of time to master a little French before he left for Paris. "Hey, I got a meeting with the foreign exchange group now, I'll talk to you later, bro!"

* * *

><p>Several weeks later, at John F. Kennedy airport, Alfred hugged his brother and father one last time, promising to call every day and take care of himself and make wise decisions and resist all sinful temptations. Then he headed to the departure gate with the other exchange students and their professor, saying goodbye to America and everything he had ever known, but excited to start a journey to someplace new.<p>

* * *

><p>The first week had been difficult, adjusting to the jet lag, a sudden bout of homesickness, the food, and of course, the fact that no one besides his classmates seemed to speak English if they could help it. There was only so much he could do with hand gestures, his phone's translator app and elementary school French until the natives finally took pity on him and replied, or attempted to reply, in English of various levels of familiarity. But despite the language barrier, he surprisingly did not run into many problems getting himself understood, and in the end, Alfred concluded that his family worried way too much.<p>

Alfred's fortunately multi-lingual roommate turned out to be a quiet kid from Washington D.C. who kept to himself, at least until someone mentioned sculpture. Across the way, two girls doing fashion illustration and graphic design shared an apartment, and next door roomed two hipster painters that Alfred suspected were either sleeping together or practicing some sort of tribal percussion and dance late into the night. Other students rotating through the academy that semester came from Canada, the west coast, Britain and Ireland, so that nights in the student's quarter had its own share of excitement whenever they were too tired from classes to navigate the Metro and venture into the city proper.

At the end of the second week, the students visited the Louvre, the holy land for all who called themselves artists, except perhaps the ones majoring in Alfred's field. He dutifully went to the required exhibits with his classmates, but quickly grew bored, beginning to tally how many naked boobs he saw (fifty-eight, not counting two belonging to a rather obese 16th century satyr).

The supervising professor, noticing Alfred's straying attention, assigned him the very important mission of finding a nearby café for their midday break. Glad for something to do, Alfred whipped out his phone, conveniently set up to take advantage of the wireless without incurring any roaming fees that his dad had already vowed not to pay, and typed _"Cafés near the Louve"_ in the Google search bar, only to have Google return with, _"Did you mean cafés near the Louvre?"_

Which was what he meant to type, of course. Finger must have slipped.

Clicking on a link on the first page of results, Alfred found two that sounded reasonable and within walking distance. Having thus completed his mission, he went ahead of the group to check out the first café, finding it to look just as elegant as the photograph on the website, and despite the brisk weather, bustling with visitors and tourists wanting a cup of hot coffee or chocolate. Alfred decided to sample the offerings just to make sure the café lived up to its reputation.

After a few blissful minutes drooling over the pastries displayed in the glass counters, he heard someone politely clearing their throat behind him and turned around quickly. A pretty waitress asked him something that he didn't quite catch, but Alfred nodded anyway, to which she said _suivez-moi s'il vous plait._ She headed towards the seating area, Alfred happily trailing after her.

She stopped, gracing him with a lovely smile, and motioned him towards a booth for two. But before he sat down, Alfred blurted out something that approximated to "Thanks, but I only want this table if you will be the one serving me" in what he hoped was grammatically correct French.

Apparently it must not have been anywhere close to correct, since the waitress burst out laughing, unable to even cover her mouth in time.

Grinning sheepishly, Alfred said, "Sorry, _je ne parle francais._ Uhh, _parlez-vous anglais?"_

"_Vous êtes trop chou!"_ she replied, this time with a more lady-like laugh, and then continued in the most beautifully accented English he had ever heard, "Of course I will be happy to assist you, sir." She waited for him to sit down at the booth and announced, "Would you like to try our hot chocolate today?"

Alfred could never say no to chocolate, in any of its forms, so he responded with a very enthusiastic _oui, s'il vous plait_. At least he could say that properly.

"How about a cake or pastry to go with your hot chocolate?"

"Sure, I'd love one! Or three!" He glanced over at the pastry case on the other side of the restaurant and did his best to describe the ones he wanted to try from memory, much to the waitress' entertainment.

She repeated his order. "So you want one flaky pastry with almonds on top, one light blue biscuit that looks like a tiny hamburger, and one slice of rectangular cake with lots of layers, is that correct?"

"Yep! Thanks!"

As soon as the waitress left with his order, Alfred pulled out his phone, flicking to the translator app, but to his dismay, he realized he had no idea what the waitress had said in French, much less spell it. Not for the first time this semester, he felt a pang of regret turning down his brother's offer to help him with his French.

He spent the next few seconds checking his teeth in the reflection of the screen for traces of spinach that he hadn't eaten in months but was sure to rear its ugly green head whenever he least wanted it. Wracking his brain, Alfred then tried to think of something clever and dashing to say to the waitress, but the only things that came to mind were, "So, do you come here often?" and "You look hot in that masculine waiter's uniform." That would never fly in Paris, the city of romance. For this Madamoiselle Waitress, he would need to turn on the best of his all-American charm.

By the time the chocolate arrived, served in a beautiful porcelain cup with a dollop of whipped cream on the side, the three assorted pastries arranged on their own plate, Alfred had resolved to do whatever it took to get (and keep) the waitress' attention. He thanked her, putting on his most winsome smile, and then took a careful sip of the hot chocolate. His taste buds stood no chance under the onslaught of rich creaminess, and he felt himself transported to a dreamworld of sweet, sweet flavor. This was no cocoa powder mixed with hot water dispensed by university cafeterias back home, this was a slice of a heavenly chocolate bar melted over the fire of the gods, served by an angel more gorgeous than any statue of Venus that could be found in the Louvre.

Alfred decided he would never taste anything as delicious as this ever again in his life, and was happily proved wrong when he took a second sip.

"Wow!" He let out a low whistle and met the waitress's expectant look. "This is incredible stuff. I can't believe you serve this to just anyone!"

"Anyone who pays," she corrected, sounding amused. "Try the pastries, too."

The pastry was the perfect combination of nutty chewiness and flaky crunchiness, the brightly colored macaroon sweet but not too sweet, and he had no idea what flavored the last cake, but whatever it was, it tasted fantastic.

"How were they?" the waitress asked.

Barely remembering to swallow his food before speaking, Alfred exclaimed, "Fantastic! I love them, really, I do."

With another brilliant smile, she leaned down and whispered, "Those are my absolute favorites to make. I am glad you decided to try them."

Alfred stared after her as she glided away to help another patron. His cheeks felt hot, his heart was doing crazy Olympic-level leaps and jumps in his chest, and his stomach was telling the rest of his organs, to their agreement, that this was the girl, and if he let her get away, they were all going to commit mutiny against him.

Well, Alfred wasn't going to let either of those things happen.

Even though he had to meet up with his class at the Louvre soon, he figured he could spare a few minutes to speak with Madamoiselle Waitress. When she came back with the bill, Alfred made a show of inspecting it as he pulled out an assortment of euros.

"_Merci beaucoup_… Angelina?"

"Oh, no, that is the café's name, sir. My name is Marianne."

Jumping on this opportunity, he said, "_Merci, Marianne! Je suis Alfred F. Jones._ Err, from America."

Alfred held out his hand to her, and she took it, expecting a firm handshake after the American custom, but he instead squeezed her fingers lightly, placing his other hand over hers. Marianne had to smile as she drew her hand back, charmed by such sweet impulsiveness.

"I have to get back to the museum now," he told her, "but I'd really like to see you again, Marianne, if that's all right."

She seemed to think about it, blue eyes sparkling with amusement, and then nodded. "I will be in the kitchens tomorrow, Alfred F. Jones, but the day after tomorrow I will be waiting tables again."

"Great, so I can see you then?" He stood up, almost stumbling over himself as he scooted out of the booth but recovering immediately. "Goodbye, I mean, _au revoir_!"

Marianne watched him leave, laughing when she saw him press his face up against the window, and gave him a small wave goodbye.

* * *

><p>"How was Angelina's, Al?" his roommate D.C. asked. "We couldn't get a table big enough for everyone, so we ate at the other café."<p>

"Oh, it was great," Alfred replied vaguely.

"Huh. I figured it must be, since you didn't call us until after you were heading our way."

As D.C. didn't seem to contribute anything else after that, Alfred went to his room and flopped onto his bed, tired after touring the Louvre, meeting Marianne, and trying to find his classmates again. Distracted by thoughts of the beautiful French waitress, he had filled several pages of his sketchbook with fanciful drawings of her, which made him laugh out loud when he realized what he was doing. Just like in the movies, he thought to himself, still grinning as he set his sketchbook aside.

Rummaging through the papers on his desk, Alfred retrieved the neglected phrasebook and started to read from where he had last stopped.

* * *

><p>[Author's Note: This fic is based on the Google commercial, and it was decided that America should be the student: .comwatch?v=nnsSUqgkDwU

Alfred's French is intentionally very elementary and full of mistakes, but hopefully it is all self-explanatory. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!]

_Suivez-moi s'il vous plait _- follow me please

___Vous êtes trop chou - ___You are very cute (lit. you are a cutie-pie)


	2. What are truffles?

The next night, his classmates invited Alfred to go with them to the clubs, but he had to decline.

"Sorry, I got stuff to do, maybe tomorrow night."

"What do you have to do that's so much more important than going out? We're in Paris, this is like a once in a lifetime opportunity to party!" one of the girls exclaimed indignantly.

"Uhh, I need to do some research… for something… important."

"He's trying to impress a girl," D.C. piped up helpfully. "A _French_ girl."

"What? Are you serious?"

"Dude, that's a secret!" Alfred hissed under his breath. "How'd you even find that out?"

"Hey, you left your laptop out in the kitchen this afternoon, anything left in the kitchen is communal property until you take it back to your room." D.C. turned to the four suddenly interested classmates. "Can you believe he was trying to Google how to impress a French girl?"

The girls, forever referred to by their origins, Illinois and Texas, immediately dragged Alfred to the couch, sitting him down before staring at him very seriously.

"Alfred, sweetie, tell us everything."

He made one attempt to get back to his room, found himself surrounded, and sat back down.

"Okay, so I met this waitress at the café the other day," he explained, "and I want to get to know her better. But I'm not sure how to start, so I was… you know, looking for suggestions."

"Is she hot?" This came from one of the painters, York or Jersey, he was never sure which was which.

"Of course, she's gorgeous, but that's not-"

"If she's hot, then how do you know if she's single?"

That was a good point, he didn't even consider that she might already have a boyfriend. "Well, she said I could see her again, so I just assumed she's not taken?"

"She might be sounding you out for a threesome." That was D.C. trying to be helpful again. "_Ménage à trois_, in the local vernacular."

There was a long and thoughtful silence as everyone considered this.

"Anyway," Illinois said firmly, shaking everyone out of their trance, "if she showed the slightest sign of interest, Google alone will not help you. You have to tell us _everything_."

It seemed they had decided to forgo the clubs until he told them what they wanted to know, but he didn't have that much to tell them, having spoken to Marianne for a total of maybe five minutes. When he finished, however, Texas clapped a hand to her forehead dramatically.

"This ain't a crush, it's true love, y'all."

"Really?"

"Didn't you see, his eyes got all starry-like talking about her. I had no idea that was possible."

"That's it, we're going with you to the café tomorrow, Alfred."

"Look, I don't need an entourage for saying hello and trying to get a girl's number, even if she _is_ French." He glanced at them warily. "You guys are awfully nosy…"

"Don't worry, we'll be totally inconspicuous! You won't even know we're there!" And before he could protest any further, his classmates had swept out the door, already discussing among themselves how best to infiltrate the café.

* * *

><p>When Alfred woke up the next morning, he found a freshly pressed outfit hanging on his doorknob that did not consist of any articles of clothing he had brought from New York. Just in case he couldn't figure it out, someone pinned a note to the lapel of the navy striped blazer saying "WEAR THIS OR ELSE." The slacks and shirt fitted a little tighter than he was used to, and at least it was chilly enough outside to wear a scarf in the mornings, so he didn't look like a complete tool, but he refused to put on the Italian dress shoes and wore his Converse sneakers instead.<p>

He checked his reflection in the bathroom, surprised to see how cool he looked, and flashed the mirror his best movie-star grin.

"Yes we can!" he told himself.

* * *

><p>Alfred didn't see any of his classmates at the café, for art students they pulled off inconspicuous surprisingly well, but then again, chic yet understated bohemian was the rule in the part of Paris not occupied by sock and sandal wearing tourists. The male waiter who greeted him and found him a table was next replaced by Marianne, as beautiful as he remembered, if not even more beautiful now because she was expecting him. As happy as she seemed to see him again, Alfred must have felt probably ten times happier, and though he tried to hide his excitement, it couldn't help bubbling over sometimes.<p>

Their conversation was often interrupted whenever she had to go help another customer, but Alfred was able to introduce himself a little more coherently this time, a university student from New York studying photography and animation, and in the process, managed to discover a little more about her. Marianne turned out to be a few years older than he was, from a city in southern France he had not heard of but would research later tonight, and she had studied business in university with the intent of opening her own establishment in the near future.

Most importantly, the receipt copy she handed him had her name and phone number.

"I thought we could talk somewhere else, perhaps when I am not so busy," she suggested, smiling brightly.

Alfred tucked the slip of paper into his jacket as if it were a precious jewel, feeling almost giddy from this success. "Then I'll see you soon, Marianne!"

* * *

><p>Throughout the next two days, Alfred discovered that his fellow Americans had been hard at work on his behalf, investigating the lovely and mysterious Marianne.<p>

"That girl is a flirt, Al," Illinois told him matter-of-factly.

"We were watching her before you got there. She smiles at everyone, certainly more than our waiter, but especially at the good-looking folks. Male _or_ female. There was this one tasty German businessman we were checking out as well…"

Before Texas could digress too much, Illinois continued, "But she _was_ waiting for you. She was looking at every new customer coming through the door, and cuffed the guy who got to you first pretty wicked."

Alfred's mournful look brightened up considerably at that. "So… you think she might like me?"

"Sure, I think so! But more than she likes any other regular customer? I don't know about that…"

"She's on a whole other level, Al, it's gonna take something else to get her attention."

"I'm just going to be myself," Alfred answered as confidently as he could. That sort of thing always worked in the movies... he was pretty sure.

The girls made noncommittal noises of agreement. "At the very least, let the boys find you something better to wear."

He had to concede, to himself anyway, that as much as he preferred his hoodies and t-shirts and jeans, they did look a little shabby worn out of the studio and in the streets of Paris. "Did they uhh, measure me in my sleep or something? Because those pants were really tight."

"Yes. Yes, they did. I volunteered to help, but they said no."

* * *

><p>"Guys, I appreciate your help with the clothes, really, I do," Alfred told them the next morning at the studio, "but I think I can handle the rest of this on my own."<p>

"What, like, by being yourself?" York and Jersey both gave him dubious looks very similar to the ones Texas and Illinois had given him last night. "If you're sure…"

"Well, I thought you should at least know something about her previous boyfriend, Al."

This time all three of them turned to gape at D.C.

"Dude, are you C.I.A or something?" Alfred asked, starting to suspect that instead of getting caught in a romantic flick, he was in a spy movie instead, and not the James Bond sort of spy movies his father disparaged but secretly watched whenever he thought no one was watching.

Still under the impression that he was being helpful, D.C. continued, voice lowered to a whisper, "I heard her ex… is the son of the Russian diplomat here. Kind of interesting, don't you think? Considering…"

They watched as Alfred's eyes narrowed, his usual careless smile gone, his expression now keen and determined. "I see… Challenge accepted."

* * *

><p>He had to do a lot of Googling and calling and walking around after class, but finally found a chocolatier who would cooperate for only a minimal fee. It took another two days before Alfred dialed Marianne's phone number, willing his voice to not tremble or get all high-pitched, and when she picked up, he asked her to meet him in the gardens behind the Eiffel Tower the next day.<p>

A little after the lunch hour, she arrived, wearing a silk flower in her flowing honey-blonde hair, which was no longer tied up in a neat bun for work, looking perfectly feminine and stylish in a grey Chanel coat and tall boots. He could not keep from flushing as he waved at her, feeling the light of her dazzling blue eyes on him, and when she kissed his cheeks in greeting, he honestly thought fireworks must be going off in his chest.

They walked along the Seine, hands tucked deep in their pockets against the cold, talking about their families, their favorite past times, various things, sometimes having to try to explain words that did not have an apparent equivalent in each other's language and laughing at the descriptions. Alfred then tried to get her to explain what it was she said during their first meeting, after he had told her he didn't know how to speak French. She blushed and demurred, but finally admitted that she said she thought he was very cute.

"Really? I mean, of course! Thanks!" Trying to hide his sudden embarrassment behind a laugh, Alfred took his phone out and started typing away. "So… _vous êtes très_… No?"

Marianne gave him a coy look through her eyelashes before saying, "No, not really. Because now I think I would say, _tu es très mignon_."

He went ahead and typed _translate tu es très mignon_ into the Google search bar, just to make sure, but he didn't need Matthew with him to understand what she really meant, having read that far into his phrasebook.

"Well, I think you're very awesome, Marianne!" he said, glancing at her, beaming happily. "I mean, you're very super!" he corrected himself, pronouncing super as the French would, _soo-pear_. "Super awesome!"

She raised an eyebrow at him, and he was beginning to think he should have kept his big mouth shut, but then she smiled and thanked him. And even though it was not spring time yet, it felt like summer to Alfred.

After a few more minutes, they arrived at the chocolate shop, and the store clerk brought out the custom box Alfred had requested, beautifully wrapped in white paper and gold ribbon. At his invitation, Marianne opened the lid and gasped at the handmade chocolates nestled within the tissue paper, each one painstakingly shaped into a delicate rose blossom.

"But these are too beautiful to eat," she protested when Alfred picked one up for her.

"Just try one!"

She carefully bit into the chocolate and made a hum of delight. "Oh, these are marvelous!"

"I made them just for you, Marianne," he said, grinning at her reaction. "Of course, I had to eat all the ones I messed up, which were a lot."

"Poor darling! However did you manage?" Marianne kissed his cheek again. "Alfred, this is so sweet. Thank you so much."

Alfred had the clerk put the half-finished chocolates into a bag for Marianne and gallantly offered to walk her to the nearest station.

"Won't you be late for class?" Marianne asked.

"Today is studio work, I'll make it up tonight."

"May I ask what you have been working on? It sounds so fascinating."

Alfred explained the various projects he had started for the semester, this week's architecture sketch assignments, the research for his European film class. Marianne seemed utterly absorbed by his talk, and even recommended a few French filmmakers that he ought to look into when he got the chance.

"You are so lucky to be able to go overseas and study art, Alfred," she murmured, sighing dreamily. "I have always wanted to be an artist, ever since I was a little girl. I tried, but it turned out I had more talent for cooking than for painting."

"Hey, you are an artist with food, Marianne, I think that's awesome. And you can still go overseas someday!"

"I know, I know. Still, I wish I could be a real artist, like you."

"Well, I wish my dad could be a real chef, like you. But without the frogs or snails you French people eat, his food is gross enough on its own, trust me."

"What do you mean by that? _Grenouille_ and _escargot _are divine!" Marianne declared, practically radiating Gallic pride for her nation's cuisine. "I shall convert your uncouth American tastes someday."

"If you deep-fry them and serve them with fries, I'll consider taking back what I said. _Maybe._"

"Alfred, you are terrible!" she exclaimed, giggling. "Do you _want _me to lose my job at the café?"

"Well, that gives you a reason to run away and be an artist with me!"

"I'm not sure I want to now, if I have to put up with your fried food all of the time."

"Hey now, I saw a McDonald's in Paris, I bet you must have tried their fries once or twice!" The idea of a girl as classy as Marianne eating at McDonald's was pretty ridiculous, but to Alfred's surprise, Marianne made a face and swore that she regretted every moment. That was actually encouraging, at least she tried, so maybe there was hope for him after all.

* * *

><p>By the time they reached the station, Alfred knew his heart belonged completely to Marianne Bonnefoy. There may have been prettier girls back home, or at least girls who had more plastic surgery, but in his opinion, none could compare to Marianne's natural sophistication, her intellect, her vibrant personality, her passion for living life to its fullest. Before today, he had never understood what it meant when painters talked about their muse, but in Marianne, he now saw his inspiration, his reason for living.<p>

Instead of saying all of that, Alfred gave her a big farewell hug, catching her off guard. Marianne laughed and tried to wriggle out of his embrace before the train left without her, but he didn't quite let go until she reached down and patted his bottom. Giving him one last kiss, Marianne darted away, still laughing, while Alfred stared after her, blushing fiercely yet smiling like an idiot.

* * *

><p><em>"What are truffles?"<em>

While he walked back to the apartment, Alfred read over the Wikipedia article that Google pulled up, clicked on another link, then another, and ended up completely confused. Well, maybe she was talking about handmade chocolates, but maybe she was hinting that she liked to eat the mushrooms that are also called truffles. Maybe she meant chocolate covered mushrooms? He pondered this question, wondering how they even got into that subject while he was talking about his art classes, and decided he should try to ask her the next time he stopped by the café.

His classmates were eager to hear how his meeting with Marianne went, their given reason for bringing over a bottle of champagne this night: to toast to his success. Granted, all but one of them were underage and so they thought of reasons to toast everything, such as days ending in vowels.

"Tell us, tell us!" Texas shrieked. "Did she like the chocolates? Did you guys kiss?"

"Girl, everyone kisses everyone in France."

"You know what I mean, French kissing!"

"She liked the chocolates," Alfred said, grinning. "We walked around the city, talked a lot. And um, we didn't kiss-kiss, but she kind of touched my butt a little."

"You do have a nice, touchable butt. Firm, but slightly squishy. Four stars."

Jersey immediately punched his boyfriend in the ribs, while Texas and Illinois made incomprehensible high-pitched squealing noises.

"Okay, whatever you do, don't ask her if you guys are dating or together or anything like that," D.C. said after the hubbub died down. "If you press her about the relationship, she's going to think you're British and there goes your chances."

"But I _am _British, some generations back anyway…"

"All right, you can't help that," D.C. conceded. "But anyway, just be cool. Try to not get all clingy and stalkery. I heard that's why she broke up with her last boyfriend. He's an ice skater, you know."

"Now you're just making stuff up." However, York's comment about his butt suddenly came to mind, and Alfred glanced at his friends.

"Y-you guys don't think I'm fat, do you?" he asked worriedly. "Should I work out more?"

"You're not fat, Al!" Illinois insisted. "You're huggable!"

"And squeezable!"

"Who needs a supermodel boyfriend with a butt you can bounce quarters off anyway?"

Alfred bravely held his tears back, but mentally resolved to walk more and cut back (a little) on his beloved fried food.

* * *

><p>[Author's Note: Oops, I didn't realize some of y'all might have read this already, haha! I made a few edits from the original version. The last 2 chapters will be posted tomorrow and Monday. Enjoy!]<p> 


	3. Long distance relationship advice

More than once, Alfred considered telling his brother about Marianne, but every time they talked, he could not bring himself to say anything, just in case Matthew told their dad. He was the good son, after all, the one who always played by the rules. Still, Alfred couldn't leave his brother out of this completely, and so he finally composed an email to Matthew explaining that he met a girl in Paris who was showing him around the city and who had some contact with the industry. Which was true, but which was not the entire truth.

Maybe I'll tell him later, he told himself, clicking the send button…

* * *

><p>"So when we were walking to the station, I remembered you said something about truffles?"<p>

"I did?" Marianne pursed her lips, thinking.

"Umm, yeah, I was talking about my film class and you said I should look into truffles, and I was wondering if you meant a film about chocolate or about mushrooms." Alfred did watch Chocolat some time ago, it had Trinity from The Matrix as a housewife and Johnny Depp as a gypsy, and it was French…ish. It took place in France, anyway.

Marianne made a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. "No, I meant Truffaut! Francois Truffaut, he was a French filmmaker, Alfred, very famous."

"Ohh… Wait, let me check, maybe he made a movie about truffles, you never know." As Marianne left to help another patron, he pulled out his phone for another quick Google search. He scrolled down the list of films at , but none of the titles sounded familiar, except maybe Fahrenheit 451, a book they had to read in high school. Truffles did not seem to play a major role in any of the storylines, as far as he could tell.

"Sorry, Marianne, I haven't heard of any of these films," Alfred admitted when she came back with his coffee.

"You really haven't seen any?" This seemed to shock Marianne. "I think you must watch at least one for your class. If you like, we can watch the films I own, and you will be ahead of everyone else."

"That's great, I can't think of anything I'd love to do more." Actually, Alfred wasn't really the type to do unnecessary work for his classes, but then again, none of the extra credit assignments his professors handed out ever involved spending hours in the company of a wonderful girl.

"Err… these films, they do come with English subtitles, right?" he asked, smiling winsomely.

Marianne sighed and shook her head in mock exasperation. "_Bien sûr!_ Really, how did you ever manage without learning any French, Alfred?"

"Well, that's why you are volunteering to teach me your language and culture."

"I had no idea I was so honorable!"

* * *

><p>They could not meet for the movie night until that weekend, so Alfred spent whatever time he could spare from his studies visiting Marianne at the café. After her shift was over, she would meet him by the restaurant back entrance, and, with her arm tucked into the crook of his elbow, they would get crêpes afterwards or stroll along the boulevards so she could show him some of her favorite places, little shops and music clubs and trendy boutiques. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they walked in silence, but whether they discussed their different childhoods or simply watched the sun setting over the Seine, it did not matter to Alfred, as long as they could spend time together.<p>

By the time Saturday evening rolled around, Alfred was a nervous wreck, fussing over every detail of his chosen outfit, spending fifteen minutes trying to smooth his cowlick down.

"Dude, you look fine," D.C. said from where he was watching at the doorway. "It's just a movie, you're not going to an opera or anything."

"Do I smell okay? I didn't use the Axe this time." York and Jersey had tossed his bodyspray out the window when they were rummaging through his belongings, replacing it with some sort of aftershave that he was afraid to use too much of because it caused such agony. Which might have been the point, actually.

"You got this, Al," D.C. told him, laughing. "Good luck, and remember, just be yourself, and not a fabulously wealthy ice-skater son of a Russian diplomat or an East German punk rock star or a world-class Spanish equestrian…"

"Haha, thanks, I think I can manage all that," Alfred replied, cramming his toes into his sneakers and heading off to the Metro.

* * *

><p>At his knock, Marianne opened the door, greeting Alfred with a warm kiss. She took his bouquet of lilies to the kitchen for some water while he waited awkwardly in the dainty living room. He tried to not look around too much, but could not help noticing the vases of wild roses already placed around the room, the various photographs and trinkets that he suspected might be gifts from Marianne's past boyfriends. (Or exes, whatever.) Taking a deep breath, Alfred instead focused on the present, because the fact that he made it this far was pretty awesome already. He was in the middle of giving himself a pep-talk when Marianne's voice drifted out from her kitchen.<p>

"Please sit down, Alfred." Marianne emerged with a bottle of pinot noir, a corkscrew and two wineglasses. "I have an absolutely wonderful vintage here we should try."

This was all still new to Alfred, but Marianne was more than happy to teach him how to fully experience a glass of wine, the way she had been taught by her parents. It seemed to be going well, until she caught him staring at her, not even bothering to breathe in the wine's aroma as directed. Giving up on her impromptu wine-tasting lesson with a mock exasperated sigh, Marianne settled onto the couch next to Alfred, and he placed an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close as the film started playing.

But when she slyly placed a hand on his knee, she discovered he was actually very ticklish there, and they had to restart the movie because he was laughing too hard to pay attention.

Alfred soon realized the movie, Jules et Jim, was in fact about a _ménage à trois_, which he felt he probably should have expected by now. He watched, mesmerized, as the story of the three lovers slowly unfolded against the backdrop of World War II and its aftermath. By the time the movie reached its climax, he was clutching Marianne tightly, even though nothing scary had actually happened yet, and she wrapped her arms about his waist in a comforting gesture.

As the final scene faded into black, Alfred let out the breath he had been holding. Normally talkative after a movie, he couldn't think of anything to say now. He felt Marianne's hand on his cheek, heard her murmur in his ear, let her brush away the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes.

"That was good… But I just prefer happy endings," he confessed, trying to smile.

She nodded, understanding.

"We can always make our own," she whispered.

He leaned forward, cradling her in his arms, his fingers reaching up and tracing hesitatingly over the contours of her cheekbones, her jaw, the curve of her soft, full lips, lips that he felt needed to be kissed. So he kissed her, and finding that one kiss wasn't enough, continued, pressing his mouth to her cheeks and chin as well, kissing down her throat and over her bared shoulder, as she breathed his name like a song.

* * *

><p>When Alfred woke up the next morning, it took him a few moments to remember what had happened, where he was, what he was doing in a strange room. Feeling something soft and warm pressed against his side, he looked down to see Marianne staring at him through long pale lashes.<p>

"_Bonjour_, darling," she murmured, one finger tracing a line down his chest.

"Good morning…? Wait, what time is it?" he asked sleepily.

"You do not have to be anywhere, do you?"

"No, not really."

"Then it doesn't matter what time it is. Besides, I was not planning on letting you go."

He turned on his side and gazed at her, not wanting to take his eyes off of her to even put on his glasses. "I could tell you a thousand times how beautiful and amazing you are, Marianne, and it still wouldn't be enough, you know."

"I know," she said, sitting up and letting the sheets fall from her naked body as she stretched, the morning sun casting a golden halo about her hair, making her seem like an angel. "But I would not mind hearing it again."

"You are beautiful, Marianne," he told her earnestly, kissing the nearest part of her body to him, which was her hip. "And amazing," he continued, kissing her hand, "more amazing than Jeanne Moreau, more than all of those beautiful French actresses combined."

"You were amazing, too, Alfred," she replied, smiling warmly at him. "At least, before the wine got to your head."

"Oh God, did I throw up on you?" Alfred exclaimed, sitting up in a panic, looking around him for any evidence of vomit on the bedspread. "I'm sorry! I-I've never really drank wine before! I promise it won't happen again!"

"No, not that, silly!" she protested, giggling at his distress. "You just passed out and fell asleep during the third time, and so I had to finish on my own, that's all."

Alfred's eyes widened, and then he flushed bright red as bits and pieces of his memory of last night returned in distinct detail. "Oh, err… well, I'm still sorry. For uhh… falling asleep in the middle of… you know. I don't normally do that!"

"Don't be sorry. I enjoyed being with you _so_ much, Alfred," she purred, giving him a suggestive wink. "However, if you would still like to make amends, I do have a few ideas…"

"I am yours to command," he answered promptly, dragging her giggling and squealing back into bed.

* * *

><p>The months slipped by too quickly for them both, and before he knew it, it was time for the end of the semester trip to the Mediterranean. Marianne met him at the French Riviera, and even with a silk scarf over her hair and sunglasses shading her eyes, Alfred picked her out from the rest of the tourists immediately. His classmates begged to be introduced to her, which he couldn't refuse, and he stood grinning to himself as she basked in their admiration. Of course they'd love Marianne, he thought wryly, especially after all the effort they took to know her.<p>

"That kind of girl only comes once in a lifetime," York told him, after they spent a day in Monaco sightseeing. "You're a really lucky guy, Al."

"Yeah, I know."

Marianne was dozing off in the bus seat next to him, and he couldn't resist kissing her forehead one more time. Not that Alfred could ever forget how lucky he was, with all the handsome tanned young men watching her appreciatively while they were at the beach or in the casinos, not even remotely deterred by the fact that she was with him, and his roommate obnoxiously mouthing "_ménage à trois_" in the background while he Googled how to decline another man's attention in French.

"Are we at the hotel yet?" Marianne murmured, opening her eyes, and he told her no, not yet.

"I hope we get there soon, I have a surprise for you that I know you will love." She said this in a sultry, smoky voice that left just enough to the imagination, that never failed to leave his mouth dry. So Alfred spent the rest of the bus ride anxiously trying to figure out exactly what kind of surprise she might have brought with her, while mentally hurrying the driver along, who seemed intent on taking the longest, most scenic route through the streets of Monte Carlo.

* * *

><p>After the final showcase in May, Alfred and Marianne lingered in the empty gallery, surrounded by the works of the academy's students and faculty.<p>

"This one is me, isn't it?" she asked, standing in front of a small silvertone photograph of a woman in profile, her face partially obscured by long waves of hair tumbling over her bared neck and back.

"Yes, it's you."

He couldn't help taking that picture of her, the rays of morning light slanting through the windows at just the right angle, making the shadows of the room pale and hazy, everything framing her figure perfectly in that one ephemeral moment. It was his favorite out of all of his submissions this year by far.

"You don't mind, do you? You are my favorite subject, Marianne, my muse."

"How can I mind when you put it like that?" she asked, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him on his nose. "_Merci_."

Alfred wrapped his arms about Marianne loosely, forcing himself to smile even though his heart felt like breaking. "Man, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I never want this semester to end. I don't know if I can leave you, it just seems impossible."

"Oh, Alfred," Marianne sighed, leaning back against him. "But you must. You have to move on and live your dreams. What we have now… it can wait a little longer, right?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he said, after a long silence. As much as he hated to do so, he had to give her up, at least for now, and get his life in order, become the man she deserved. He would have to trust her and wait, just a little while longer.

"You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Marianne. Whatever happens, I'll love you. Always will."

"_Je t'aime aussi_," she whispered in a soft voice. "_Je t'aime_."

* * *

><p>There was a joyful reunion at the airport when Alfred returned to the United States, Matthew and his father relieved to see the prodigal son returned safe and whole after his adventure in foreign lands.<p>

"You look like a grown man now, Alfred," Mr. Jones said fondly, dabbing at his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. "I am very proud of you."

"Thanks, Dad," he said, giving them each another quick hug. "Man, it's great to be back. I've missed you guys so much! Heck, I miss America! Hey, can we stop at McDonald's on the way home?"

But the peace did not last for long, and Matthew could sense Alfred's growing restlessness behind the outward appearance of exuberance, he knew it to be a sign of things to come. He had to find out why, before someone said something they would regret.

"Al, what's really going on?" Matthew asked, standing in his brother's room, his arms folded.

Alfred knew by that tone of voice there was no way out of this confrontation. Sighing, he rubbed his hands through his hair and glanced at his brother. "You know that girl I met in Paris, Marianne? How I said I was going to break it off with her? Well, I lied, I didn't break it off. That's what is really going on."

"What? Why?"

"I couldn't do it, Mattie," he muttered unhappily. "I love her, I still do, I want to make things work between us."

"Are you crazy? It's not going to work! Dad will never approve of this, I don't need to tell you that!"

"Dad doesn't have to approve of anything! Don't you get it, I'm an adult now, I can make my own decisions!"

"What if it's the wrong decision, Al, what then?" Matthew retorted. "You do these stupid things, never thinking about how it could affect your family, your future. Well, I'm not going to help you this time!"

"This time? You _never_ help me!"

"I do, you just never notice!" Matthew stormed out, slamming the door closed.

"I didn't ask for your help, anyway…"

Alfred slumped into his chair, feeling suddenly exhausted. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed at his aching eyes and then took a deep breath. He backspaced over the words that had already been typed in the search field, "_long distance relationship advice_." Then he typed in, "_jobs in Paris_," and clicked search.

He was going to make this work, he had to try. As much as he loved his brother and father, he had his own life to live, and he knew that life would include Marianne, somehow. They would understand, some day.

* * *

><p>[Author's Note: Last chapter coming soon. Thanks for reading!]<p> 


	4. Fin

As expected, his father objected to his plans, and after the argument, the worst they ever had, Alfred moved out to stay with two of his former classmates. Every night, Mr. Jones would sit in his armchair, waiting for his son to return home, but whenever Matthew got Alfred on the phone, he would refuse to talk to him. Despite his earlier anger with Alfred, Matthew continued pleading with them both, trying to get them to reconcile their differences. For a while, it seemed like his words fell on deaf ears, but Matthew never gave up.

On their birthday, Alfred finally came back home, looking humbled, but still determined.

"Dad, I'm sorry about everything, but I haven't changed my mind. I'm going back to France, and this time I'm going to stay with Marianne."

His father nodded, though he looked as if it pained him. "I knew you would say that. But I could not let you go, not without a fight." He cleared his throat, his expression slightly regretful, then he drew himself up and handed Alfred a sheet of paper. "For your birthday, son…"

"What's this?"

"Your brother Matthew and I saved up enough for an airline ticket… enough to go to Europe. You will have to use it by the end of the year, of course."

It was enough for only a one-way ticket, Alfred realized, and somehow knowing that made the gift even more priceless.

"And the rest of the money will be for when you get settled there," his father added. "You'll need it, living in Paris is not cheap."

"Thanks, Dad, and thank you, too, Matthew. Gosh… I can't thank you two enough for this."

"Saying sorry would be a good start, except you already said that," Matthew said quietly.

Mr. Jones snorted, but could not help beaming in satisfaction. "This French girl of yours, she does speak English, right? I want to be able to communicate with her when I meet her."

"Dad, she speaks perfect English!" Alfred said, almost giddy with relief.

"Hmph, she can't possibly be that French then."

Matthew laughed and hugged them both, and the three of them went out to the backyard to celebrate as a family one more time, with a dinner of grilled burgers and chicken and corn on the cob and a store-bought American apple pie. In deference to his time in France, Alfred added fancy fixings to the hamburgers - Provençal seasonings, dark ground mustard, fresh greens and even some capers, which made for a delicious, if somewhat different meal. The mood was a little bittersweet perhaps, but Alfred thought it was the best birthday they've had in years. And that was before their dad brought out the alcohol for an impressively-worded toast he must have spent hours composing.

Later that night, Alfred searched for flights from John F. Kennedy to Charles de Gaulle on his laptop, and this time, his father and brother were there with him.

* * *

><p>Alfred took the stairs two at a time, so eager to see Marianne he didn't stop to eat dinner, but he stopped halfway once he realized Marianne's door had been left wide open at this late hour. He heard voices coming from her flat, her voice and that of a man's, sounding low yet tense, as if they were arguing, and he climbed the rest of the stairs slowly. After a few moments, a tall man emerged from the doorway, looking visibly upset from the encounter.<p>

Their gazes met and although the other man's pale eyes widened slightly in recognition, Alfred knew he had never met him before.

"You must be Alfred F. Jones," the man said quietly, coming down the stairs with a heavy tread.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"I know you, and you must have heard of me, yes?" The accent was unmistakable, and Alfred realized with a start that this must be Ivan Braginski, Marianne's ex-boyfriend, the Russian ice-skater one D.C. had mentioned.

They stared at each other for a minute, two rivals sizing each other up, and finally Ivan broke the tension, smiling and clapping a hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"Take care of her," Ivan said at last.

"You don't have to worry about that," Alfred replied, a little insulted to be seen as the kind of guy who wouldn't take care of the woman he loved. "I love Marianne."

"As do I. I will know if you have hurt her. We have our ways of finding out. Good bye, Alfred F. Jones. …For now."

Wide-eyed, and maybe just a little disturbed, Alfred watched as Ivan left, and then raced up the rest of the stairs.

"Marianne? Are you okay?" Alfred called out, peeking through the open doorway of the apartment.

"Alfred!" Marianne exclaimed, her eyes reddened from crying but looking otherwise fine. "Wh-what's going on? When did you arrive? Why are you here?"

"I came back for you." He ran to her, embracing her, never wanting to let go.

"Why didn't you tell me? _Mon dieu_, this is a bad time, I look like a mess," she complained absent-mindedly, attempting to compose herself as he buried his face in her hair.

"Hey, it's still your birthday, right?" Alfred said gently, letting go of her just long enough to pull out a box of chocolates from his bag. "_Bon anniversaire_, Marianne," he said, taking off the lid and smiling at her shyly, hopefully.

She sniffed, eyes brimming with tears again as she picked up a chocolate. Biting down, she made a questioning noise, then pulled out the piece of paper from inside the chocolate. "_Je t'aime_," she read aloud.

"I know I've got to finish school first," Alfred began, stumbling over his words in his excitement, "but I've worked it all out. I'm coming back to France, I've got a job with a university newspaper lined up while I finish my degree. It's going to work, Marianne, I promise."

"Oh Alfred, you silly fool," she said, even though she was smiling through her tears. "But… thank you. I admit, I have missed you, too, and seeing you again is the best present I can ask for."

"I know," he replied, and he kissed her until they both ran out of breath and had to close the front door before the neighbors complained.

Even after they spent some time getting reacquainted with each other, something was still bothering him. Alfred gazed down at Marianne curled up beside him, her hair tousled and her cheeks prettily flushed, so gorgeous it made his heart ache. But he had to hear it from her.

"So, who was that guy stomping out of your apartment, your ex-boyfriend?"

"You are not jealous of Ivan, are you, Alfred?" Marianne murmured knowingly, turning to face him.

"No way, what are you talking about? Pssh, don't be crazy!" Actually, he was extremely jealous. Ivan was very tall, and an ice-skater, too.

"You can be sure Ivan won't bother us again," she reassured him. "He came to my apartment uninvited and told me he still loved me and would take me back if I asked. But I told him you were the one I loved. He was angry, he does not like you very much, but he accepted it, in the end."

"Oh, so Ivan was jealous of me?"

Marianne had to laugh at his relieved expression. "Yes, you could say that." Kissing his cheek, she said, "You are my sweet American boy, Alfred. The only one for me."

"So does that mean… you wanna do it again?"

"I thought you would never ask," Marianne breathed, moving to straddle him.

* * *

><p>His proposal of marriage was over-the-top romantic, complete with expensive champagne and roses, the Eiffel Tower lit up like an extension of the starry sky in the background as he got down on one knee and asked if she would marry him. She said yes almost before he even finished asking. <em>Bien sûr<em>.

He swore he had no part in the fireworks display afterward, however.

* * *

><p>Even Alfred's father was charmed by Marianne's flawless elegance once he met her, and approved of her knack of dishing out insults in French and English with exceptional finesse. Matthew got along astonishingly well with her odd yet lovable family, who had invited everyone to a countryside villa in southern France. There, they were treated to night after night of delicious cooking in the Mediterranean tradition, courtesy of her many relatives of Italian and Greek origin.<p>

Alfred had the dubious privilege of meeting Marianne's best friends from university, who turned out to be the punk rocker and equestrian from her storied past.

"Alfred, darling, this is Gilbert Weilschmidt and this is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. These two have been my friends ever since I was a girl. Naturally, do not believe everything they tell you about me."

The two of them sat down on either side of Alfred, grinning mischievously, undoubtedly checking him out.

"So you're the American stud our Marianne decided to settle down with?" Gilbert said. "You must be loaded."

"Well-endowed, perhaps?" Antonio continued blandly.

"I'm no Rockefeller, but my family came into quite a bit of money-" Alfred started before realizing that was not exactly what they were talking about. He blushed, but went ahead and told Gilbert and Antonio he was not interested in threesomes with two other guys, at least, not without checking with Marianne first. The two burst into laughter.

"You're awesome!" Gilbert cackled, holding up his fist for an epic bro-fist.

"You don't know how happy we are that Marianne finally found someone she loves, and who loves her back," Antonio added, looking pleased. "You are going to be so happy."

"What are you two telling him?" Marianne called out from the kitchen.

"They're just telling me that I have the most gorgeous and incredible girl in the world for my fiancée, Marianne, and I am totally agreeing with them."

"Oh really? And what else?"

Antonio was shaking his head and Gilbert was making gagging noises, but Alfred couldn't be happier to tell her how highly he thought of her, how lucky he was to be a part of her life.

* * *

><p>Graduation for Alfred came and went in a flurry of activity, he didn't even remember the ceremony but had to assume he was there from the millions of photos his father took of him in his cap and gown.<p>

Now it was time to plan for the wedding. Ever practical, Marianne set him to finding a church for the ceremony while she attended to the rest of the details.

"Are you sure this is the place you want?" he asked Marianne as they stopped in front of a likely-looking cathedral. "I have all of these other churches pulled up from Google, we could still check them out. There's the umm… Notre Dame, and this Montmartre."

"I am sure about this one," she replied fondly, "but since we have time, we can certainly take a look at your list."

"Okay! But first, we should stop at your café. I could really use some hot chocolate."

Laughing, Marianne agreed.

"You know, you have a lot to thank Google for," she told him as they strolled down the boulevards, hand in hand, just like they did over a year ago.

"Yeah, if it hadn't been for Google, I don't think I would have ever found you. I sure owe them a lot…"

She shot down his idea of having the Google's logo emblazoned on a banner and hung at the altar however.

* * *

><p>The guest list included their families and friends flying in from all over the world, her co-workers, his classmates, who were overjoyed to be included and commendably restrained themselves from telling Alfred what to wear, leaving that to his fiancée. One invitation had been returned, politely declined, but was accompanied by a magnificent set of wine glasses and other entertaining supplies, plus a pair of ice skates specifically labeled for Alfred.<p>

Matthew and Gilbert and Antonio were proud to serve as the couple's witnesses for the civil ceremony. The religious ceremony afterwards was a suitably abbreviated Catholic version, and the flowers and decorations for the wedding day tastefully arranged with everyone's willing help.

All around the church, every single person was smiling, Marianne's mother occasionally drying her tears with a lacy kerchief, while Alfred's father did his best to not get his sopping wet handkerchief even wetter. Then the string quartet started playing the wedding march, and there was an immediate hush as all attention focused on the aisle.

Standing at the altar, Alfred watched his bride approach, accompanied by her majestic father. She looked absolutely ethereal and elegant in a gown of snow-white lace, with fresh lily blossoms entwined into her golden hair and gathered into her bouquet. Though her face was veiled, he could tell Marianne was looking only at him, her smile as radiant as the sun, and Alfred had never felt more honored, more fortunate. It suddenly hit him at that moment, how much his life had been changed by a chance meeting overseas.

He almost missed saying, "I do." But the kiss afterwards more than made up for that.

* * *

><p>One year later, at a cozy renovated bed and breakfast in southern France, a young husband was struggling to comprehend an instruction manual that consisted mostly of drawings and numbers. He turned the manual upside down, sideways, right side up, and then threw the booklet on the ground, staring at the pieces of wood and scattered screws as if they personally offended him in some way.<p>

"I don't know why I thought Ikea instructions in French would be any easier to understand! Of course it wouldn't be!" Alfred muttered, frustrated.

Marianne watched him from the doorway, one hand resting lightly on her stomach, smiling to herself as Alfred pulled his laptop closer and Googled, _"how to assemble a crib."_

* * *

><p>[Author's Note: Well, that's the end. I just want to say thank you to my betas for helping me work through the first version, and everyone else who had commented and enjoyed. This is my favorite pairing to write, as rife as it is with incompatibility and difficulty, so I appreciate everyone who took the chance with it. Like I've been saying, I chance upon criticism of my writing on the internet constantly, obviously not directed at me, and so I feel discouraged all the time, but welp, at least I know I've improved, that's some comfort.]<p> 


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